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O Sleepless as the river under thee, Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod, Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
There are no stars to-night But those of memory. Yet how much room for memory there is In the loose girdle of soft rain.
O harp and altar, of the fury fused, (How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!) Terrific threshold of the prophet’s pledge, Prayer of pariah, and the lover’s cry,
His thoughts, delivered to me From the white coverlet and pillow, I see now, were inheritances— Delicate riders of the storm.
And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced As though the sun took step of thee, yet left Some motion ever unspent in thy stride, Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!